Zhang Wenrui opens his eyes to a familiar ceiling.

For a long breath, he just stares, his chest heaving, his mind slow to catch up.

This… this is his old room.

The faint hum of the heater, the smell of clean sheets, the wooden wardrobe by the wall—everything exactly as it was before his death.

Was everything just a dream?

He sits up abruptly and grabs the phone from the drawer beside his bed.

The screen lights up—7:24 a.m., 24th of the Winter Moon month.

His pupils tighten.

The day he died.

A chill crawls down his spine.

Did I return from the future? Or did I just dream of it? Or… am I trapped in an illusion?

He tries to steady his breathing, but the confusion digs deeper.

No matter how he twists it, he can’t decide if what he saw was memory or madness.

But one thing he can test.

He remembers the news from that morning—Drake Federation vs. Ismail Republic, score 3–2.

He had checked it before leaving home, just hours before the explosion.

He types on his phone, hands trembling slightly.

The result loads.

3–2.

Exactly the same.

The future I experienced was real.

He swings his legs off the bed and walks out of his room, bare feet on the cold floor.

A warm smell reaches him—his favourite dish.

He pauses at the kitchen doorway.

The woman cooking turns, and for a moment, his breath catches.

Princess Li Niyue’s face greets him—or rather, the face of his lover in this life, Meng Yi.

Her smile is soft and familiar.

“Sleepyhead, you’re awake. Go wash up. I made your favourite breakfast.”

Hong—his name in this world—hesitates.

“Meng Yi, can we… not go shopping today?”

Her smile falters slightly. “Why? Is something wrong?”

He studies her face, every feature etched with worry.

“I’m not feeling well,” he lies quietly.

Her eyes dim, disappointment shadowing them.

He can’t stand seeing it, even knowing what’s coming.

“Alright,” she says finally, turning back to the stove.

He forces a smile. “I’ll take you tomorrow.”

He heads to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, and stares at his reflection.

The same reflection that once looked down the barrel of death.

After breakfast, he sits on the couch, pretending to watch sports, eyes flicking again and again to the clock.

12:40—the moment it happened.

The minute hand crawls closer, his heartbeat echoing louder with every tick.

12:39.

12:40.

Nothing.

He exhales, shoulders slumping.

Maybe—

The roof explodes.

A blinding flash.

A missile crashes down before him, the sound swallowing thought, light consuming everything.

Then silence.

He gasps awake.

Same ceiling.

Same room.

He fumbles for his phone—7:24 a.m., 24th Winter Moon month.

The exact same morning.

This time, he doesn’t waste a breath. He grabs Meng Yi’s hand, drags her to the car, and drives out of the city. The skyline fades behind them, the air clear and cold, and for the first time since waking, he feels a fragile hope. But at the same time as before, a light flashes across the sky. The missile descends. The car disintegrates with them inside.

He wakes again. Same time. Same date.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He takes Meng Yi to the train station, buys the earliest ticket, and boards. The wheels begin to turn, the city fading in the distance. He holds Meng Yi’s hand tightly, watching every minute crawl closer to 12:40. The moment it arrives, the carriage erupts in fire. Metal twists. Flesh tears. Silence.

He wakes once more. The same morning again.

He tries everything—changing routes, hiding, running, blending into crowds—but death finds him no matter where he goes. His killers don’t care if he is surrounded by thousands or alone in a tunnel. The moment always comes. The time always stays the same.

Eventually, he stops struggling. He sends Meng Yi shopping, telling her gently that he wants to rest at home. When she leaves, he drives far out of the city to an abandoned lot where no one will find him. He sits there, watching the clock tick toward his destined end.

The air grows still.

As he waits, he expands his awareness—an instinct from his dream—and suddenly his pupils contract. Energy. He feels it—cold, agile, infectious. Not the dense, immovable force of this mundane world, but the same essence that once belonged to the extraordinary realm of wierds.

His gaze turns sharp.

He clenches his fist, gathers his spirit, and punches toward the sky.

The sound of shattering glass echoes across existence. The sky fractures like a mirror, and the world collapses around him into blinding shards of light.

When his vision clears, he stands in a boundless white space.

Before him sits a colossal figure—skin black as the void, veins pulsing with molten-red light. His eyes burn with a power that doesn’t belong to mortals. The throne beneath him is large enough to hold a mountain, and beside that vastness, Zhang Wenrui is no more than an ant.

Shock and fear seize him as he stumbles back, staring at the giant’s face. Where am I? Who is this? Is he the one behind the illusion?

The giant’s deep voice rolls through the white space, shaking it. “You are in your spirit space. I am Kratos, the God of War. And yes—I was responsible for the illusion.”

He can read my thoughts, Wenrui realises, forcing himself to steady his mind. Spirit space…

He focuses, willing control over the endless white around him. The void ripples, reshaping into a vast green plain beneath a sunlit sky. Yet the giant remains, still enthroned, unchanged.

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“Why can’t I control you?” Wenrui demands.

Kratos’s crimson eyes lower. “Because the difference between us is as vast as our size.”

“Then why are you in my spirit space?”

“Your body,” Kratos says simply, “is the most compatible vessel I’ve found nearby. I chose it as my resurrection host.”

Wenrui’s throat tightens. “You’ll resurrect… through me?”

Kratos nods once.

“Then what will happen to me?”

“You will die,” the god says, his tone almost casual. “Everything you are will be devoured by me.”

Wenrui narrows his eyes. “You’re not even trying to lie.”

Kratos shrugs, the motion like mountains shifting. “Why should I? You can’t stop what’s inevitable.”

His words fall like a verdict, and silence follows. Wenrui stands still, thoughts sinking deep into the weight of that truth.

He recalls the explosion—the temple shattering into dust, the red hand bursting out from the ruin, the flood of crimson light that consumed his vision before he lost consciousness.

His gaze rises to the giant. The being’s skin is dark, but its markings glow red—the same colour as that hand.

“You’re that hand,” Wenrui says quietly.

The giant nods.

“Are you thinking,” Kratos rumbles, voice low and mocking, “that those who dismembered me and sealed me away will come to save you?”

Wenrui doesn’t answer. He only looks up, calm, steady.

Kratos’s laughter rolls through the air. “They won’t. Why would they? And to tear me from your body means tearing your life from it too.”

“Why?” Wenrui asks.

Kratos bares his teeth in a grin—white, jagged, knife-sharp. “Because I’ve already bound myself to your life source. Pulling me out means pulling that source with me.”

Wenrui’s tone is cold. “Then I die anyway. What if I kill myself now?”

Kratos chuckles. “You can’t.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then Kratos’s tone shifts, a hint of calculation beneath the weight of his voice. “But there is another way. I can resurrect—and you can live.”

Wenrui’s eyes narrow. “How?”

“Create a body for me,” Kratos says simply.

Wenrui frowns. “How do I do that?”

“You’ll know when you grow stronger. I’ll guide you.” The god leans back on his throne. “Now—go.”

Before Wenrui can react, an invisible force slams into him, hurling him out of the spirit space.

Kratos watches him vanish, his crimson eyes gleaming. “The boy is cloaked in fortune… perhaps he’ll help me take revenge.”

Then his massive form stills, and his eyes close in deep slumber.

Outside, Wenrui lies motionless on a bed, breathing faintly. Beside him, an old man and a middle-aged man stand in silence, their gazes thoughtful and wary as they watch him stir.

“Who are—” His voice falters as recognition strikes.

He has never seen them in life, but their faces are familiar—from official portraits and news feeds.

The middle-aged man is Tong Weiren, his superior, the stern head of the Imperial Inspectorate—a department that investigates high-level crimes, corruption, and espionage.

It operates separately from the Iron Guard Division/Military Officers, the empire’s military enforcers known for crushing rebellions and maintaining order with ruthless precision.

And the old man—his robe embroidered with golden threads, eyes calm and sharp—is Grand Teacher Zheng Haoran, the empire’s national teacher and highest spiritual advisor.

Zheng Haoran raises a crystal, bathing Wenrui in soft golden light. Warmth spreads through his body, but he feels nothing beyond it. No energy reaction. No discomfort. Just a test.

Wenrui opens his eyes wider, feigning confusion. “Why am I here?”

Inside, he already knows the answer. It’s because of the red hand—Kratos’s hand—but he hides that truth carefully behind a mask of ignorance.

Better to listen. To learn what they know. And to trust no one.

Zheng Haoran’s voice cuts through the silence. “Boy, an ancient demon’s hand entered your body—the one sealed beneath Qingxuan Temple.”

Ancient demon. Wenrui’s thoughts stir coldly. So, they don’t know his name. They don’t know Kratos.

Their eyes fix on him, measuring every twitch of his expression.

He plays his part, widening his eyes, jolting upright as if panicked. His hands run over his chest and arms in a frantic search. “Where? How?”

Zheng Haoran watches calmly. “You cannot find it that way.”

Wenrui lowers his tone, respectful and pleading. “National Master, please… can you remove it?”

Zheng Haoran’s reply is quiet, unyielding. “No. I cannot.”

Wenrui’s voice tightens. “Then… what will happen to me?”

Before either of them can answer, the door swings open.

A priest in white robes steps inside—his attire marks him as one who serves the divine cultivator of the royal family.

“The Chief Priest requests your presence at the throne chamber,” the priest says, glancing briefly at Wenrui before turning away.

Tong Weiren frowns, exchanging a look with Zheng Haoran. “The Chief Priest didn’t attend the ceremony earlier. Why now?”

Zheng Haoran’s expression hardens. “Only one can command him—the Lord himself. He must be acting under the Lord’s will.”

Wenrui stands from the bed, his movements composed, listening carefully.

He knows exactly who they mean. The founding emperor of the Great Zhou Empire.

If that being has stirred, then Kratos’s presence within him must have reached divine notice.

He bows slightly to Tong Weiren and Zheng Haoran, then steps out of the room.

The priest waits in the corridor, silent. “Follow me,” he says.

Wenrui nods. His footsteps echo softly as he walks behind, unafraid.

If the only god of the empire truly wished him dead, he would already be gone.

He follows the priest through winding corridors and into the vast throne chamber—where heaven’s judgment waits in silence.

The priest halts just inside the doorway, then bows low. “Chief Priest, Zhang Wenrui has arrived.”

Wenrui steps forward, his gaze sweeping the hall.

Officials line both sides of the chamber in neat rows, their faces solemn beneath the golden light of the hanging lamps.

Between them stretches an empty aisle leading to sixteen marble steps—and above them, upon the high throne, sits the emperor, robed in imperial gold.

At the foot of the stairs stands an old man with closed eyes, hands clasped before him.

As Wenrui enters, the man’s eyes open—ancient, sharp, and filled with divine weight. “Come forward.”

Wenrui walks past the priest and stops at the front line of officials.

His eyes flicker briefly to the left—his grandfather, Prime Minister Zhang Junyuan, stands there, his expression unreadable.

To the right stands Princess Li Niyue, calm and poised beneath the heavy crown of duty.

Following the priest’s lead, Wenrui bows toward the emperor and the Chief Priest.

The Chief Priest’s voice resounds through the chamber, deep and cold. “By the will of the Lord, I declare this decree: The Demon Hall, having disturbed the sacred ceremony, is guilty of unforgivable sin. For this, there is only one punishment—destruction.”

A heavy silence follows.

The Chief Priest raises his hand, golden light circling his fingers. “Princess Li Niyue and Detective Zhang Wenrui shall carry out this divine order.”

The princess steps forward, her voice clear and steady. “I am honoured to share the Lord’s burden.”

Wenrui inclines his head, his tone equally calm. “I accept the order.”

Inside, his thoughts ripple like a quiet storm. Another test. Another chain of fate is tightening around him.

The Chief Priest opens his palm, and two golden orbs of light streak through the air toward the princess.

As they touch her chest, divine energy flares—golden armour blooms across her torso, intricate and radiant, and a long bow of light materialises in her hand.

“This,” the Chief Priest intones, “is the Lord’s gift, to aid you in fulfilling your duty.”

Zhang Wenrui’s gaze lingers on the divine weapon—its glow serene yet suffocating.

Hope flickers in his chest as he glances toward the Chief Priest, half expecting another light to fly his way.

But the old man doesn’t even look at him. “I am leaving.” With that, he turns and exits through a side door, his robes trailing like flowing scripture.

The emperor rises next. “Court adjourned.” His words echo, final and cold, before he too departs.

One by one, the officials bow and retreat, the hall emptying until silence returns.

Wenrui stands still, uncertain whether to follow or wait, until Princess Li Niyue steps beside him. Her golden armour still hums faintly with divine resonance.

“Tomorrow at dawn,” she says quietly, “meet me at the west gate.” Then she turns and walks away.

Left alone, Wenrui exits the chamber.

Outside, Tong Weiren waits, arms folded, beside a female servant holding a tray.

On it rest his belongings—the mirror, the badge, and his identification tablet.

His eyes catch the mirror, glinting faintly under the torchlight.

Tong Weiren’s tone is firm. “Come with me.”

Wenrui collects his things and follows him into a carriage. The wheels creak into motion.

After a long silence, Wenrui looks toward his superior. “Minister,” he says quietly, “could you help me?”

Tong Weiren’s gaze shifts to him, calm and sharp. “You want to know about the Demon Hall.”

Wenrui nods. “Yes.” Then, almost to himself, he murmurs, “I don’t know why the Lord gave me this task.”

Tong Weiren leans back slightly. “None of us can fathom the Lord’s will. But I suspect it’s because of the ancient demon’s hand inside you.” His tone carries no surprise, only measured certainty. “The Demon Hall appeared only a few years ago. They are weird worshippers—organised, silent. They cause no trouble, never challenge authority, but they keep searching… for something.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Now, it seems they’re looking for the body parts of the Ancient Demon.”

Wenrui studies him. “What do you know about the Ancient Demon?”

Tong Weiren exhales. “Almost nothing. The name came from the royal priests. The divine cultivators of the royal family might know more, but they’ve never spoken of it.”

Wenrui nods slowly as the carriage comes to a halt. He looks out to see the familiar gate of his residence.

“Thank you, Minister, for the ride.”

Tong Weiren nods once. “Your team will accompany you on this task. When does the princess plan to depart?”

“At dawn, from the western gate.”

“I’ll inform them,” Tong Weiren says, his tone final.

Wenrui steps down from the carriage, the night wind brushing his face. The horses snort softly, and the carriage rolls away, leaving him alone before the quiet gates of his home.

He enters the house to find his father and several elders from the main branch waiting in the hall. Their faces are grim, voices low and heavy with caution as they question him about the task.

When they hear that the princess will join him, the eldest elder leans forward. “Stay away from her,” he warns.

Wenrui bows his head, saying nothing. One by one, they leave.

Silence returns to the house.

Inside his room, he stands before the mirror. His reflection stares back—calm eyes, unreadable. Then the surface ripples, and he steps through.

Light bends. The world turns translucent.

He enters the heart space—a vast expanse of silver mist and floating symbols. Here, words drift like thoughts, each one glowing faintly in the air.

Messages pulse from the other seven members, their presences flickering across the space.

The heart space can hold twelve, but now there are only eight—Wenrui among them.

The first message flickers into existence, sent by Number Two. Qingxuan Temple has been destroyed. Does anyone know who did it—or why?

Silence follows. Then, one by one, the others respond—not with answers, but with questions, curiosity laced with unease. None seems to know the truth.

From their words, Wenrui confirms his suspicion. The other six aren’t from the capital. Only Number Two is. And if he were someone of rank or influence, he’d already know who was responsible. That means he’s outside the court.

Wenrui lifts his hand, and spirit light flows from his fingers. His message forms in the air. The Demon Hall destroyed the temple. I don’t know why.

Half-truth, half-shield. Enough to sound credible, not enough to expose himself.

He closes his palm, and the message dissolves. The silver mist fades as he withdraws from the mirror.

Back in his room, he sits on the edge of the bed, thoughts heavy.

Three months ago, he had pushed his physique close to the mortal limit. Now, after the red hand—Kratos’s hand—entered his body, his strength has surpassed it entirely.

His mortal shell has reached perfection, and his lost cultivation has returned.

He has stepped once more into the Kong Jin Realm.